(What’s) In a Name?

I was filling out the form to change my last name. It gave me the option to change my first name too. This option led me to wonder: what if I changed my first name, what would it be, what is the significance of my names?

I have always loved names. I collect them, like a stamp collector collects stamps. I file them away, categorizing them: aliases if I were an author, names for a spunky heroine, names for my future sons & daughter.

My name is Sofia. Sofia means “wisdom”.

My middle name is my great grandmother’s maiden name. It is also similar to the Spanish word for “red” (my Mom’s favorite color). I am blessed with a second middle name, Fe. I am named Fe because my parents exercised faith that I may be healthy, because they had so little money.

What’s in a name? There are little stories in mine.

I am blessed because of the gifts my parents gave me when they named me.

I have wisdom, family and faith in my name.

Catapults, the Body


I’ve been thinking a lot about the composition of my body. I feel certain that I’m not the only human that has done so. While I was online, I came across an image of a woman at the age of 20, and an image of her grandmother at the same time:


(image found on Reddit.)

Seeing this picture reminded me of a journal entry I wrote September 6, 2012.

>>>>  I run down the hill. The hair in my ponytail sways back and forth, going speedily, the rate at which it goes is faster than the motion of my hips. My chest bounces up and down and my bum echoes the motion. My arms swing back and forth and I feel my muscles expanding. My skin is slowly misting with sweat. I breathe the morning air through my nose, it recycles and comes out my mouth. In spite of all that I put my body through- I still love it’s pieces. . .

My body keeps a better record of my life than I can keep with my pen. The scar on my left wrist, the sun tan lines, the freckle on my back- all are there- and all have a story to tell. My nails were painted, but last night I scraped the paint. My hands curl when I’m writing- and my legs are crossed when I sit. My eyes- a place that has seen anger, sadness and most of all, laughter and love. My brown and curly hair that is soft and fuzzy. My arms, thinner, but still carry stretch marks that will probably always abide there. My wrists are so skinny and little, one of the purest part of skin and bones on my body. My legs are covered in hairs, bristling against my pants. . . . My ears that can hear my sister asking how to spell a word. Someday they will hear my daughter ask the same question.

When I shower, I realize how much of me there is- but as I look at my thighs, I can’t hate them, for in the raw, there is something special. It is my body. And this body, this gift- is so special and perfect because it is imperfect.

These ears, toes, smile crinkles, they all came from my family. My collarbones, hipbones, and knees have been passed down from centuries of grandparents. My skin isn’t white- or brown- or red, it’s all of these. My arms are a pecan brown. My stomach, soft white with a glimmer of shiney-ness where stretch marks lie. My thighs are tan. My lips a purple pink. . . Yet, with all my un-eveness, I am here. And this is true- I am unique. . . . All the pecularities, they are gifts from my grandmas, grandpas, aunts. . . . I have been developed. (edited for grammatical clarity.) <<<<

I struggle consistently with remembering that my body is beautiful and that it is precious. Remembering that pieces of me were passed down until they culminated to form me, helps.

My body is an heirloom & it is a valuable.